


Standstill

by Anonymous



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies) RPF
Genre: M/M, improper use of oscar statues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-13
Updated: 2017-01-13
Packaged: 2018-09-17 04:42:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9304763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: For the kinkmeme: Colin Farrell fucks Eddie Redmayne with his Oscar.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was so tempted to name this "Going for Gold". Or alternatively, "And the Oscar goes to...". Somebody stop me.

"Never got me one of these," he says, testing the weight of it in his hand. Glimmering streaks race from the Oscar's ridged face all the way to its fastened-together feet.

"Really? But you're _you_." The wide-eyed look is completely genuine, and he can't help but chuckle. The sheer amount of naivety is awakening something dark and dangerous within him.

"Too much work," he jokes. "Luncheons and all. I don't like doing my ass-kissing at those." He can't resist winking, loving the way the other man's ear tips go red. It's startlingly easy to get him embarrassed. He prods further.

"Have you ever...?"

The mortified gaze turns quizzical. "Have I ever...?"

He mimes what he means and receives a scandalized gasp in return.

" _What_?"

Another shrug. "All winners do it at some point."

"Stop fucking with me," the other male snorts.

He leans forward, gets right in his space and stares at him long and hard. His hand rolls the statue against a skinny leg. "I'm not fucking _with_ you."

He does end up getting the other on his back, and leans on his elbow for leverage. Trousers have been thrown across the room, pale thighs shaking as he pushes in. His grip is firm on the Oscar's thighs. It's slick, sliding in centimeter by centimeter. The body below his writhes, hand covering a now completely red face.

"I-I can't believe..."

"Shh," he hushes. "You know, the shoulders are the tricky part. But it's all a matter of finding the right angle." With a tilt the Oscar ends up arms-deep, nudging gently at the contracting muscle. A high-pitched groan fills the room and hands grip his shoulders, green eyes wide and bright.

"How many people have you done this with, exactly?" There's an accusatory undertone, which amuses him. It's not like he does this on the regular.

"I'm not gonna name names, if that's what you're asking."

His hand is gripping gold and it's only a quarter-way in; the other's legs spread wider for better accommodation. He likes the view.

"Deep breaths, that's it. You know, every time you blush it's like you sprout new freckles. It's adorable."

"Shut up," he exhales sharply. "How deep?"

"Elbows. Waist, now."

"You better not be aiming for the ankles, 'cause I--"

Without warning, he does what he's personally dubbed as his favorite Hollywood magic trick. He pulls back the metal, leaving the head barely inside the rim before shoving it half-way in again. It's like switching a lever -- no, more like smashing a button, because it gets the younger to react, a cry emanating him as he writhes and comes on the spot. Ropes of fluid spurt from his dick. Even the gold is now stained with white.

"There are other ways, too, you know," he says soothingly, brushing red hair from the other male's forehead. He leans lower and whispers. "Next time I'll show you the secret wonders of your BAFTA."


End file.
